Marcelle Freiman



Tallaganda Ridge


Marcelle Freiman


From the green rift’s darkness,

its un-trodden damp, comes a nudge

of cold, ice-smell of solitude, stale water –

as if from the crevice of a body

in neglect – or hibernation:

the land’s gradient pulls, olive-grey as dusk,

its unfolding arm summons

rays of cold light to the horizon –

shadows disintegrate like broken leaves,

brilliant light edges the hills

with frost of ash like white ground glass:  

a paean for trees, their silvery bark,  

cool grey softness of their new-peeled limbs

stretched towards the rain-draught from the night.


after John R. Walker, Tallaganda Ridge 2003



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